


Nothing New Under the Sun

by htebazytook



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, First Time, Humor, Jazz - Freeform, M/M, Music, Romance, Slash, Smut, Songfic, Unhealthy Relationships, anger issues, violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-20
Updated: 2012-05-20
Packaged: 2017-11-05 17:16:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,679
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/408980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/htebazytook/pseuds/htebazytook
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which John is depressed and Sherlock plays songs at him for reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some indulgently ~*~artistic~*~ bits in here that may or may not constitute songfic (they do).

**Title:** Nothing New Under the Sun (1/2)  
 **Author:** htebazytook  
 **Rating:** NC-17  
 **Warnings:** none  
 **Disclaimer:** Pairing: John/Sherlock  
 **Time Frame:** during series 1  
 **Author's Notes:** Some indulgently ~*~artistic~*~ bits in here that may or may not constitute songfic (they do).  
 **Summary:** In which John is depressed and Sherlock plays songs at him for reasons.

Sometimes, when he's in uniform, people will just walk right up to him and say 'Thank you', and no matter how many times it happens, John is always baffled at first, and then embarrassed and awkward and guilty-feeling. John hasn't actually _done_ anything. He hasn't single-handedly restored world peace or saved a gaggle of schoolchildren from a burning building. He's done things correctly, that's all. And sometimes incorrectly. And some of the correct things had been wrong, and some of the incorrect things had been right. So what was it people judged his character on? What did they see in the pattern and make of the clothes he'd worn that labeled him _Thank you_ worthy by default?

John stops wearing his uniform.

He doesn't normally tell people he's ex-military, either, and not for fear of stirring up some kind of political debate. It was that false kindness people put on—it was the _smiles_. Those frightened, unsure smiles that radiated discomfort and a cautious sort of respect that John has no taste for. People got afraid to be offensive or unpatriotic or treat him like they would a normal person. 

This is why he liked being around people in law enforcement—they were not impressed, and they did not give a shit. It made John feel less obligated to be careful and falsely kind, himself.

For example, the two lower level officers working on the crime scene that have set up camp near him aren't sort who inspire pity. John doesn't go out of his way to make nice with them, and they do little more than ignore his very presence. Sherlock's swooped away to scan for more evidence, so John pulls his jacket tighter around him (bloody cold wind, today), sets about jotting down keywords from Sherlock's latest monologue in his notepad, tries his best to look busy and important. 

One of the officers indicates the stiff on the tarmac. "Maybe if this genius hadn't been hanging 'round such a dodgy part of town in the wee hours of the morning, we wouldn't even be here."

"Yeah well, the night is dark and full of smackheads. It's his own fault, really."

For some reason John feels it is fundamentally not okay for people to talk this way unless they're Sherlock, which is completely mental, of course, but it's just that Sherlock was so suave about it. And Sherlock didn't do it to be mean—he just stated facts, no matter how socially unacceptable they may have been. It wasn't _sadistic_.

"I'm sure that Sherlock bloke'll be round any second to spin us a tale about how it _really_ happened, and criticize our perfectly good work and generally just boast a lot or, or _whatever_."

"Ah, don't get all wound up over the likes of him. 'S a bloody robot, that one. Wouldn't even react, probably. Doesn't understand." 

"Of course he don't understand. He don't have the brains to understand. All he has is, what, circuits or whatever."

John figures they either don't know that John had come with Sherlock or they don't care, and he's not sure which would be worse. John doesn't stop writing in his notepad, but he does stop cataloguing the details of the case and begins drawing random, decidedly violent looking doodles instead. Which probably says something.

John glances up to see Sherlock making his way back over through the obstacle course of barrier tape and hovering officers.

Sherlock smiles one of those calculated little smiles of his. "Ah. I see you lot have finally discovered the . . . dear or dear, look at those absent expressions. Well, I'm sure you'll get there in the end, not to worry."

John scratches his nose to hide a smirk.

"Come on, John," Sherlock concludes, doesn't look at him before stalking past the barrier tape and out onto the street. 

John follows, tries not to think about how he's tripping over himself like a dog scurrying after its master. They walk the whole way back to the flat, and Sherlock's too busy going over the case in his mind to be much good for conversation.

London is so cold, these days. Probably down to global warming, somehow—knowing this town, it _would_ find a way to avoid any possible benefit of the planet's imminent doom.

John had bought a ridiculous number of jumpers after he'd got back. He hadn't meant to, it's just that whenever he passed a shop window displaying such welcoming, fluffy attire he would shiver in his useless jacket and debate about it like it is schizophrenic outside for a bit before just giving in and buying the damn thing.

He'd never worn jumpers very much, before—only ill-fitting Christmas gifts and disturbing attempts by girlfriends to buy him something thoughtful, when really it just felt somewhat maternal and like they didn't know John at all.

As it stands now, he's accumulated rather a lot of jumpers, and he can't imagine why he'd so reviled them in the past. Perhaps it was just that it was so very cold outside, anymore, and that the flat was old and drafty.

*

John's room is so cold that he piles on two extra duvets, not that it does much to keep him warm. Whenever he wakes up, his dog tags are inexplicably icy against his chest.

John hadn't stopped wearing them, for some reason. It's not for pride or luck or anything like that. He doesn't toy with them or revel in the reminder that they're there just as something to think about. He doesn't take care to hide them and he doesn't display them, either. 

It's not that he _actually_ misses active duty. He just feels at a loss without direction, like that. It had always been _something_ next, always, for his entire life . . . from school, to more and more school, to various expected stints before he was _properly_ a doctor, to the quest for respectability after that, to the way achieving what he had always worked toward had failed to make him feel satisfied or particularly accomplished, after all, and then off to war because that was _something_ , right? Patriotism and honor and all that—he could wrap those things tightly around himself and become submerged and safe and _somebody_. He hadn't been able to be somebody on his own—perhaps becoming part of a whole and working towards someone else's goals instead of his own would take the responsibility away from John, so that it would never be _John's_ fault if he was dissatisfied.

But then he'd come back from serving, and he'd still felt dissatisfied. It hadn't felt like his fault or anybody else's—it had just felt stupid and predictable. Of course _John_ couldn't appreciate something properly. Of course he would feel so staunchly mediocre about _everything_.

He knows, deep down, that he does need to address these sorts of things in order to stay sane. It's just that it's easier to get caught up in the whirlwind of Sherlock's life and forget about dwelling on his own, or whatever it was constituted John's life at the moment. With Sherlock, there isn't _time_ to fix his own life. And when he's part of a whole in regard to Sherlock, he doesn't have to be _somebody_ , at all, because Sherlock was hogging the metaphorical blankets. Perhaps this was the key.

Sure, he'd feel okay, for awhile, convince himself that his current routine or relationship or job was what he wanted, but then something inevitably would happen to undermine his confidence again. Oh, only the stupidest things would do—forgetting his keys or stubbing his toe or something being annoying at just the wrong moment. Easier than thinking too much about the bigger, more permanent annoyances.

He felt like The Scream. He felt immobile and one-dimensional while bright awful colors swirled violently around him, but he couldn't ever see what colors they even were . . .

Distant violin strains jar John back to the present. How long had he been gazing mindlessly at the telly? And when had Sherlock got back from roaming the streets enigmatically or whatever it was he did when he went out? Whatever he did, he seemed determined to make sure it never involved doing the shopping or being helpful in any way.

The music sounds familiar, but it also sounds strange to hear that particular melody via violin. It's got a jazzy feel, and Sherlock's unnaturally twisted (yet somehow still graceful) fingers coax it from the instrument with ease. He's facing the window, and his jacket rides up because of the angle of his arm, stretches tight across his shoulders so that John can see the muscle working with every sway. Sherlock's fascinating to watch most of the time, but even more so when he's playing. It was like being allowed to glimpse what Sherlock would be like if he wasn't so _on_ all the time, like his true self was peeking out for a moment. And it wasn't just his obvious talent that was fascinating—it was the physicality of it. Feeling soundwaves vibrate at you in a way that was lost in recordings, feeling how alive the notes were, and how unpredictable.

"And _why_ are you so focused on old jazz standards all of a sudden?"

Sherlock shrugs, plays on prettily. "Make a deduction," he suggests, glances over at him.

John laughs. "I can't. I don't know the song."

Sherlock turns away, saws out leaning bluesy tones that make John hold his breath until the melody bends down to normalcy again. "Yes, you do."

"Uh, _no_ , I—"

"You recognize it," Sherlock amends. "You just can't recall the words, at the moment. Better get on that—you _are_ the one in charge of words."

"Oh, am I indeed? And I suppose you're in charge of the music, is that it?"

"Just so. Excellent job keeping up, John. Well, sort of." Sherlock faces him again, plays a high, soaring sort of line and like it's significant.

John just laughs and shakes his head, relocates to the kitchen to rummage around in the cupboards even though he isn't hungry.

*

They've been shivering on the pavement for what seems like an hour, waving in vain at each rush hour spooked potential cab. Finally Sherlock more or less throws himself in front of one to get it to stop, which is hilarious not because of how dramatic he is about it, but because of how very nonchalant he is afterward—in Sherlock's world that was just how it worked. You were chasing assassins one minute and having a quiet lunch the next.

The cabbie pulls away from the curb before John's even shut the door the whole way, and he falls against Sherlock for a minute after a sharp and highly illegal U-turn.

They don't talk because Sherlock is often too busy thinking to even consider being social. John does the same, albeit less intensely, mulls over the new leads in the case, too, but soon gets distracted by people watching and a creeping, crushing sense of sameness. Same buildings and same cars, same people going to the same work on the same routes, day after every dragging duplicate day. Bright tour buses seem intended as a splash of color against the drab London color palate, but simply seeing throngs of happy people atop happily painted vehicles doesn't translate into making John feel happy, himself.

For Sherlock it was easy, switching between the dangerous and the mundane, but for John those weren't two equal states of being—it was more that the mundane was a deep ocean of _sameness_ while the dangerous bobbed on top, just little bits of dangerous driftwood with Sherlock leaping from piece to piece effortlessly, but sometimes John struggled to keep up, or missed and got splashed, or started to sink again. But before John could ever fall too far, Sherlock would double back, roll his eyes and drag him unceremoniously onward.

. . . Sherlock's giving him an odd look, like he can read John's mind and doesn't think much of his elaborate, heavy-handed metaphor. It makes John laugh, and Sherlock only looks more confused before quirking a smile and looking out his window again.

Maybe it was just because they'd had to wait outside in the cold for so long, but the cab ride is bordering on interminable, at this point. The driver seems determined to take only the most congested, touristy routes, and John starts to worry that they'd given him the wrong address. The delay was more than a little annoying because John was _tired_ , dammit. He wanted nothing more than to kick off his shoes and fill his brain with frivolous television while Sherlock paced in the background or sat nearby with his fingers steepled, staring sightlessly into the middle distance. And okay, it sounded creepy when you said it like that, but it had become comforting in its familiarity.

John makes himself stop clenching his hands, sighs his irritation away and resigns himself to looking out the window and tolerating the simmer of sameness in his mind.

Sherlock leans forward abruptly, knocks on the divider. "I think we'll pass on the scenic route, thanks," he says, in tones that are anything but courteous.

*

When John comes back from the shops there is an unassuming plastic bag filled with white powder sitting on the coffee table. Beside it is a folded yellow Post-it with a bold number one written on. Sherlock is sitting silently on the sofa engrossed in his phone, still wearing his coat even though it's unbearably warm in the flat today.

"Sherlock . . ." John begins.

"Something the matter?" 

"Ahah, yes, actually—what the hell do you think you're doing? You can't just sit there texting all . . . all _aloof_ or whatever when there's, there's . . ."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "It's _flour_ , John. I haven't used in ages. Don't give yourself a heart attack."

"Well why, why . . . _Mmm_. Sorry, so, do you still _have_ drug paraphernalia about, then?"

Sherlock looks at him uncomprehendingly. "I might need it for an experiment," he says, testy, but John knows it's Sherlock's version of moping and has to laugh. To reassert his supreme vexation, Sherlock continues, "Frankly I'm surprised you couldn't tell it was flour instantly, considering the ludicrous amount of time you spend in the kitchen . . . "

"Not _everything_ calls for flour. How do you suppose I make toast every morning? Bake a loaf of bread from scratch and let it sit overnight and—?"

"Oh, I really don't care. Do you have a guess, or not?"

"A what?"

"A guess. This is a clue, in case you hadn't noticed." Sherlock plucks up the Post-it. "Evidence marker."

John sighs, shakes his head and is determined not to engage in Sherlock's stupid little games—it would only encourage him, and John was _not_ a pushover, dammit. He shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it up, drops the shopping on the kitchen table and goes upstairs to change into a lighter shirt, while he's at it. He can't breathe with the flat this warm.

*

Alcohol didn't work. It was a shame, really—John had been looking forward to cultivating a brooding, pub-dwelling persona. He could've shaved carelessly and smoked a lot and picked up nubile young things with a single smoldering flick of the eyes.

It was probably best that alcohol _didn't_ work, if only to preserve that sad, sad fantasy.

What alcohol did was exacerbate everything he already felt, with the added bonus of rendering him too intoxicated to even move or express it in coherent sentences. So he was left immobile, mute, and stewing in his own dark thoughts.

That doesn't mean John isn't going to indulge in a brandy or two, since they're at the pub anyway. Sherlock had insisted on talking to Lestrade _now_ , no matter that he was out with his mates or that it was nearly midnight and Lestrade wasn't likely to be much use in his current state. 

Sherlock gets into an argument with one of Lestrade's drinking buddies—well, not so much an argument as Sherlock picking the poor unsuspecting bloke apart while he gaped uselessly in retaliation.

Lestrade capitalizes on this and escapes to sit with John at the other end of the bar. "All right, John? You're looking blue."

"Yeah, well. That's life, right?" Only he doesn't feel blue. He feels black, like his thoughts and words and actions are typed out in his mind but don't, _can't_ show up against the darkness of the background. More than that, he feels entirely colorless, and maybe the typed out words don't ever show up at all—no matter that he kept typing and typing, nothing ever imprinted, and it was a waste of effort to even try, anymore. 

John smiles at Lestrade, takes another drink. He liked Lestrade, but he didn't completely trust him. He'd learned not to trust people, in general, as they tended to be taking advantage of your kindness or were cutthroat doctors looking to rise in the ranks or ingratiating women who wanted compliant, courteous boyfriends but not real people.

It was odd that he trusted Sherlock so easily. But Sherlock was honest—brutally, callously honest—so John didn't have to worry about him being fake. And any paranoid thought that John had about _other_ people was taken care of, as well, because Sherlock always noticed what other people were thinking and took it upon himself to expose it. Sherlock always had his back, in an inadvertent way, and quite without trying to. So that was all right.

Sherlock approaches, a shock of ultra-black against the shadows of the badly lit pub, and his usually pale skin adopts the rosy-golden glow of the lights behind the bar. Lestrade stands, pats Sherlock on the shoulder (which Sherlock frowns at) makes an excuse and says goodnight and disappears.

Sherlock sits on the barstool next to John, sitting so his coat fans out around it and makes it look more like a cape, which John can't help snickering at.

"Something the matter?"

John shakes his head. "Nothing. Never mind. Oh, hello . . ." The barman's placed a glass of champagne directly in front of him. It feels conspicuously classy there amid the dark, grimy lighting of the pub, and, hang on . . .

John peers closer. Sits back. Folds his arms. Peers again. "What's that?"

"What's what?"

"What's that in the bottom of the glass?" John isn't even going to bother asking if Sherlock is responsible—just assuming that he is is generally the way to go. He holds up the glass and squints at the circular little bit of metal glinting against the bubbles. _That is an engagement ring,_ his brain helpfully supplies. _Well, this is it. This is how it happens—we're sitting in a pub one night when my very male and likely asexual flatmate proposes to me, then just sits on his barstool not talking the whole time like it's perfectly natural._

" _Read_ it," Sherlock sighs.

John tilts the glass and realizes the shiny thing at the bottom is in fact a metal tab with a number two on it. "So, what, you were playing some fantastically rare jazz song cataloguing different kinds of drugs? Am I to expect a Rastafarian flag in my bedroom, next, or were you just planning to swap the sugar with crystal meth and have done?"

Sherlock waves it off. "Oh, you don't even take sugar."

"Not really the point."

Sherlock sighs, and John catches the flash of disappointment on his face before he tucks it away again. "Right, I'll send it back then shall I?"

"No . . . I mean, no, it's fine. Suppose I'll just have to drink my way to the bottom to get a better look . . ."

"No, you won't. Champagne isn't your drink. Doesn't suit you—too decadent, too sophisticated. And given your below-average stature and inability to hold more than a single drink all that well, the bubbles would go straight to your head."

John sets his jaw.

Later, as they're stumbling through the streets, John reflects that it may _not_ have been a good idea to top the two or three brandies he'd already drunk with a brimming glass of champagne. Or the one after that. On an empty stomach.

"I do _not_ just do whatever people say,'" John is saying and definitely not slurring. He's grateful that Sherlock's coat is exactly as handy to cling to as it looks. He wonders idly why Sherlock is even wearing his coat on such a warm night.

"I didn't say that," Sherlock corrects. "I said, you do what _I_ say."

"No I don't!" John protests, then thinks about it. "That's different!"

"Why is that different?"

"Because you need . . . ugh, because you need my help with normal people things and I like feeling needed and shut up, just _shut up_ about it . . ."

Sherlock smirks

"Shut up!"

"So," Sherlock says. "This is what your true self is like. Interesting. And rather sloppy."

John groans and presses his face into Sherlock's shoulder, since it's there and everything. "The hell are you on about?"

"Your false self," Sherlock clarifies.

"Now, see, _now_ you're just talking gibberish."

"Self-explanatory enough, really. Surprised you aren't familiar, given the fact that you have a therapist—then again, not so surprising considering how inadequate she is."

False self to mask your true self, yes, coping or whatever. John isn't sure how he feels about that being applied to him—the idea that you were so hopelessly repressed that you'd never genuinely existed except fakely on the surface was a bit scary. How would you even _know_ what was real and what was fake about yourself?

"And you're hyperaroused," Sherlock observes.

John spouts laughter. "I'm not, ha, what are even, just, _ha_ . . . that's rich, that is, come on . . ."

Sherlock eyes him. "Fairly common presentation of PTSD. Hypervigilance, difficulty sleeping, increased aggression."

Oh. Right. Well, whatever—John blames the alcohol. And therefore Sherlock. "You can stop playing at psychiatry any time, now. I'm not traumatized." The funny thing is, it's true—he's not traumatized. And maybe that's more messed up than anything. "Maybe this is just how I've always been—you don't _know_ . . ."

"I'm a bit surprised you haven't analyzed yourself and reached the same conclusions."

"What, because I'm a doctor? It's a job, Sherlock, it's not what defines me. I'm _not you_."

"I see. So, what is it that defines you? Being a soldier?"

"No . . . well, a bit. Just. Sherlock, people are more complicated than labels, however convenient you may find them."

Sherlock shrugs, acknowledging but not exactly agreeing, which was about as much as you were going to get out of him. His hair looks lighter under the streetlights, sheen of warmer brownish shadows over the curls.

John stumbles and Sherlock steadies him so fluidly that John thinks for a mad moment that Sherlock could actually see the future. John clings to him a little more for good measure, and _God_ Sherlock is warm. His hand had been so warm on John's arm a second ago, strong and warm and things . . .

((practically everything leaves me totally cold)) 

He hears it in his head, this out of context snippet of a song buried somewhere in his memory. He can't summon up the other words, however, or the title, but he's certain it's the same song that Sherlock had played at him before. It's been stuck in his head constantly since then.

"So, let's recap," John says. "Cocaine, champagne . . . do I get a hint, here?"

"Do murderers normally give hints? _Try_ to be realistic."

John laughs. "Right, I see. So this is just job training,"

"I was bored," Sherlock says.

((fighting vainly the old ennui)) 

" _Of_ course you were," John says. "So why . . . ?"

"You were around."

((tell me why should it be true)) 

" 'I Get A Kick Out Of You'," John says triumphantly.

Sherlock smiles, brief and tiny, but it's still there. "Knew you'd get there eventually. And while inebriated, to boot. Very good."

John feels much too pleased with himself, whether because he's proved he's moderately clever or because he might've been on the receiving end of a genuine compliment from Sherlock Holmes himself, back there.

*

This was rather a messy one, and John was glad he couldn't see the dead face. Beaten, bloodied body laid out on the floor with limbs flung out at unnatural angles. It wasn't that John was squeamish. It was just that he wondered what the man's name was and where he came from, and if he really was a bad person deep down, or what lies or threats driven him to this kind of life.

He feels Sherlock's eyes on him. " _What_?"

"Nothing. You. Why do you care so much about a stranger? A potentially criminal one, at that?" My God, was John's every thought displayed on his forehead for all to see? Well, for Sherlock to see, anyway . . . 

"It's not really a matter of caring about this stranger specifically. It's just the principle of the thing."

". . . Which is?"

John sighs. "Oh I dunno . . . you can just file it away under sentiment, I suppose."

Sherlock nods. Behind him, Donovan is glaring daggers. In fact, she's been doing so since the moment they'd arrived at the crime scene. Sometimes John wonders if she actually has a job apart from barking at Sherlock if he gets too close to her territory. At least Anderson _looked_ busy.

"John," Sherlock says, and John can tell by the inflection alone that it means _Come on, we're done here,_ digs his hands into his pockets against the oncoming cold and follows Sherlock out the door.

While passing Donovan, Sherlock says, "Careful, sergeant. Your face _is_ going to stick like that," which is more or less exactly what John had been thinking, and hiding his unstoppable snickering is near thing.

*

John tries to watch telly but ends up, like he always did, marinating in battling feelings of dissatisfaction and unquenchable anger _at_ the dissatisfaction. Whenever he thought maybe it'd let up some—someone smiling at him just because, or holding the door, or saying 'Thanks' sincerely—it always came crashing right back down on him, like an anchor weighing him relentlessly to where he deserved to be.

He'd got antidepressents from his therapist but doesn't like the idea of cheating his body chemistry, because then what happened when he stopped taking them? What if real life wasn't as carefree as a forced influx of chemicals? Or, worse, what if it _was_ just as carefree, and then it was as though he'd never even felt out of sorts in the first place—did that make him crazy or just pathetically weak?

One day, after Sherlock had been complaining about boredom to an especially childish degree, the drugs were missing and Sherlock was abruptly chipper—well chipper in _his_ way, which meant sifting through old research papers voraciously and tapping his foot and not even yelling at John to stop trying to think so very loudly, he was _working_ . . . 

John's sure Sherlock wouldn't deny it if he asked, but he doesn't ask, because someone may as well get some use out of the stuff.

John addresses the world at large: "Ugh, I need a bloody hobby . . . "

"You have one," Sherlock pipes up, and John nearly jumps out of his skin.

" _Jesus_. I thought Lestrade had called you in? Oh for goodne—you're not even _dressed_ . . . "

"Me," Sherlock says, popping into view now, all careless hair and slept-in clothes.

John tilts his head. "Sorry?"

"I'm your current hobby." Sherlock brings his violin, which John hadn't noticed at first (how _unobservant_!), up to his shoulder. "You're welcome," he adds before snatching up his bow and playing something that's difficult to categorize. The music speeds along at an irritated trot for a bit, then slows to play the melody in that endlessly lovely stylistic manner that comes so bafflingly easy to Sherlock. Utterly romantic music, now, with fluxuating tempos, perfectly timed pauses and those bendy little pulls between notes like they did in opera. _Sherlock_ shouldn't be so good at this—it's not just technical proficiency, it's like it's second nature to him. Like breathing out or breathing in. Sherlock's shirt stretches and crumples with every bow-stroke, and the impassivity of his face makes such an intriguing paradox under all that syrupy music.

John snaps out of it. Raises his eyebrows pointedly in response to Sherlock's last remark, then chuckles and sets about making some breakfast.

*

Harry tells him to get a Facebook, which should've been his first clue to stay well away. He browses through page after page of old schoolmates and colleagues. He even friends some of them, but after a few days of notifications spamming his inbox he grows weary of the novelty of _Oh my God, but he used to have a mullet!_ and _She married who and did what to her perfectly lovely breasts?_ Eventually, it's just depressing to read little boasting 'status update' blurbs and witness cringingly desperate photos of people.

In a way, it feels like subtle schoolyard taunting all over again—John wasn't interesting, John wasn't clever or creative, John didn't have an opinion or anything that he simply had to declare to the world by way of Facebook status. 

He spends an entire afternoon working out how to disable email notifications, during which time the layout of the site seems to have changed on him at least five hundred times.

Sherlock manages to clog John's wall in the interim with cryptic messages that John can only assume are song clues, no matter that Sherlock didn't have a Facebook himself.

"Okay, help me out here," John says, sits across from Sherlock at the kitchen table and has to move some flasks aside to make room for his laptop, which is the only reason he gets Sherlock's attention. Not that Sherlock does more than just glare at him before returning to whatever it is he's doing—John's found it's usually best not to ask.

"So." John logs into his email account, scrolls down through the plethora of My Fair Lady related spam courtesy of various Facebook notifications and invites and messages. "First things first—allow me to congratulate you on your immense knowledge of sensational films."

Sherlock focuses on him. 

"So, which song is it? 'The Rain in Spain'? The loverly one?"

"That's what you're supposed to figure _out_."

"Thanks for the reminder. There's one where someone says 'this is no time for a chat!' which I distinctly remember because I couldn't stop laughing after . . ."

Sherlock's staring. "Why _are_ you this familiar with musicals?" 

"Look, it's not—My Fair Lady was my sister's favorite, growing up."

"That doesn't mean it's yours."

"Well no, but, I mean . . . Ooh, I know, is it 'Get Me To The Church On Time' ?"

Sherlock frowns. "What have I done to make you so constantly suspicious that I want to marry you?"

"Well, there was that time we sampled wedding cakes . . ."

"It was necessary to maintain our cover!" And then Sherlock does something truly terrifying. He sings. Not innocuous humming or whistling, no— _singing_. As if his voice wasn't melodious enough, this is just, it's just . . .

But familiarity starts to creep and John forgets to be flabbergasted. " _Oh_! Oh I know this! That's the song where Higgins talks instead of singing, right?"

"That's . . . every song."

"Well yeah, yes I know, but it's the _one_ , the one. With all the angry bits that you were translating into the double . . . things, scratchy violin things. The _things_."

Sherlock smiles briefly. Odd that he isn't annoyed at John's ignorance. "Quite so." Sherlock leans over John's shoulder, picks his hovering hands up and deposits them at his sides so he can click a file open. Sherlock's hands are warm, and his proximity raises hairs on the back of John's neck.

((I've grown accustomed to her face)) 

John snorts. "You weren't very creative this time, though, were you?"

"Would you rather have been taught to speak properly over the course of several weeks of intensive speech therapy?"

"I speak properly!" 

Sherlock shrugs. "Eh."

((I've grown accustomed to the tune she whistles night and noon)) 

"I am _not_ your Eliza Doolittle!" John's taken aback by his volume. Says defensively, "Well, I'm not."

"Just as well, because I don't think making you over with an updo and a pretty ball gown would have been particularly flattering."

"No, no, of course not. White washes me out."

Sherlock snorts.

"Just . . . 'I'm very grateful she's a woman and so easy to forget'? Like, _really_?"

" _Pronouns_ ," Sherlock says dismissively. "If you spend your life worrying so much about pronouns and which ones are meant to act in which way, and which ones are appealing by default of their DNA . . . well, that sounds like a very limited existence, indeed."

((I was serenely independent and content before we met)) 

John studies him. He doesn't instantly know exactly what Sherlock's thinking by doing it like Sherlock would, and so has to ask, "What's the point of this game, anyway?"

((surely I could always be that way again, and yet)) 

"I told you," Sherlock says, returning to his work. "I was bored."

*


	2. Chapter 2

John feels the need to lash out everywhere—in the back of his throat, on the tip of his tongue, in the pit of the stomach and any and all other worn out idioms. How did civilized people deal with this? Or was John just a special, disgruntled snowflake?

The urge to be mean, and then meaner and relentless and unable to stop it and soon it starts to feel delicious just for its own sake . . . He always feels guilty, after, but this clearly isn't any match for his temper in the heat of the moment. Most of the time, he says all the mean things silently and safely within the confines of his imagination, and then embarks on elaborate campaigns of passive aggressiveness instead.

Maybe he should start writing some of this down, like his therapist had told him to. Then again John didn't think the current readership of his blog would be all that interested in his personal problems as a sub plot to the harrowing capers he normally typed up. And he certainly wouldn't want Sherlock to stumble upon some sort of diary of his innermost thoughts, because he'd probably just explain to John that he was being silly or, worse, try to help him in some sort of ill-advised though well-intentioned manner. And maybe not even well-intentioned.

At least currently John was actually angry _about_ something.

It's a pity how bloody cold it is in the flat, because John wants to throw his jacket at a chair the second they arrive. It would've felt at least as good as flinging words at Sherlock, and in fact would probably make more of an impression. Sherlock seems not to take notice of John's agitation, hangs his coat up neatly and heads for his computer.

"You can't treat people like that, Sherlock, I don't care how stupid they are, and yes, they _were_ stupid. Doesn't mean they deserve to be publicly mocked."

"Why not? Is it healthier to, oh _I_ don't know, refrain from saying anything even though you _are_ thinking the same thing and instead let your friend do it for you, just to keep your integrity intact?"

"There is such a thing as common courtesy."

"I'm not _common_ ," Sherlock sneers, and ugh, he really is sneering, there. It makes John want to punch him.

John laughs instead, short and sarcastic. " _Mmm_ . . . Oh of course. Of course, Sherlock. Right you are. Listen, I dunno if you know this, but not everyone can take having you . . . _inflicted_ on them, all the time."

"No, they can't." Sherlock says it like someone else would say _Water is wet_ , just a fact and not affiliated with real people. "But some people really do deserve it. _You_ think so, or you wouldn't put up with it. Don't people 'deserve' to know the truth? Aren't those _your_ sort of values—truth, honor, the British way? _Someone_ needs to explain to people why they're being idiots, since apparently nobody has done a good enough job of it before. It's doing them a favor, really."

"Oh and you're the one to do it are you? Yes, well done, you're quite the philanthropist, you are."

Sherlock looks more frustrated than affronted— _Why won't you understand?_ his expression conveys, and his eyes add that he takes John's willful blindness as a personal betrayal. "You _like_ it, though. You like not having to control yourself because I do it for you. If I berate annoying people for you, then you can swallow your own inappropriate reactions. And it's not just that. You like having me to control you in other ways. I give you purpose."

"Really I don't know what people are referring to when they say you're full of yourself . . . "

"I tell the truth, which is oh-so- _rude_ , apparently. But I'm still right."

And there's no point, _no point_ in talking to Sherlock sometimes. John would forget about that, and then when it happened again he _hated_ himself for forgetting. John pushes past him, got to remove himself because his now boiling anger is irrational and not really proportionate to the situation. Climbs the stairs and locks his door and goes to bed in his clothes, although it take an hour of stupid, simmering rage that makes him feel sick before he finally does find sleep.

*

Today had been awful. It had started out awful, stayed awful and concluded awfully. It wasn't any one thing, although his tiff with Sherlock the night before hadn't helped. He felt conspired against by every icy breeze he encountered out on the streets.

He wasn't trailing along behind Sherlock, for once, which should've felt freeing, but instead it made him feel like nothingness. Nothingness should be an emotion—it wasn't sad or angry or bored, and it wasn't no _thing_. It was what happened when you took a negative photograph of your life and ended up living that, instead. And it was okay—John was used to the heavy, metallic taste of it apparently lodged permanently in his chest. It was a comforting presence, in a way, if only because it was so familiar.

John walks into the flat to another soundtrack of jazzy violin music, which really is rather distractingly strange on the violin—violins were supposed to be disciplined and only measuredly emotional. There were usually markings in the music to tell Sherlock when to go expressivo or rubato or whatever. With jazz, you had to just feel it, and how did _that_ work with bloody _Sherlock_ , exactly?

"You _used_ to serenade me with classical music."

Sherlock stares out the window like the world is a page of manuscript, which for him it probably was. "Romantic," he corrects, times it to fall between a skip in the music while he resets his bow. 

John blinks, not sure he's heard him correctly. "Er . . . " 

"You heard me," Sherlock assures, still playing, turns to him to sweep his gaze over John quick before turning back to stare out the window again, filing away little pieces of data about him for future reference. It didn't even give John pause, anymore. "I only play the _interesting_ composers. I'm not about to waste my time going I—IV—V—I all the livelong day—it's _tedious_. There's a reason people find Mozart and his ilk 'soothing', you know."

John doesn't quite follow, but he's not about to admit that. "So, romantic?"

" _Capital_ R," Sherlock sighs and John hates him for a minute because Sherlock _can't see his punctuation_ , dammit. "Oh dear Lord, you were only in _band_ in school, weren't you? Ugh." He pauses in his rant to finish out a phrase. "I'm not about to waste your time with all those _predictable_ works. Since you've been around I've tried to stick to composers that aren't utterly boring—got to keep your brain in gear——Wagner and Debussy . . . you do seem to like Debussy. I'm certainly not about to rattle off loads of standard violin repertoire like _other_ supposed virtuosi who only limit their understanding to violin friendly works in G Major and . . ." He trails off darkly.

"Right." John's . . . flattered? It was _like_ a nice gesture—maybe it was even intended as one. "And the jazz songs?"

Sherlock's mouth twitches. "Oh, just a little experiment I'm working on. Recognize it?" He plays the main melody again, and yeah, it does sound familiar, although John can't quite place it . . . 'But, oh'—he felt very strongly that that upward strain had 'but, oh' tacked onto it. Unfortunately this wasn't much to go on in the way of lyrics.

"Sorry, afraid I can't remember the title."

"No? Hm. Well, keep thinking on it." Sherlock starts over from the beginning as if to help John remember, but he also walks away from him and grumbles about being _gawked at_ and how it's _distracting_ , so then again maybe not.

"You do realize how insulting it is that you're testing out my intellect on something so trivial?"

"Oh, I'm fine."

*

At the restaurant, Sherlock tells their waitress to "Cancel the _err_ sters" on her way past their table.

John frowns. "Sorry what?"

"Oysters. You we're just saying they were a bit too slimy for your taste. My God, is your short-term memory really _that_ deficient? Honestly John, I sometimes worry for your mental health . . ."

John rolls his eyes. "Thanks for your concern." Sips from his mug and reaches the bottom rather sooner than expected. He'd been filling up on coffee while they were waiting (and waiting and _waiting_ ) for the appetizers. John fully expected Sherlock to take a single bite, say _Hm_ , and spend the rest of the evening watching John eat like it was some kind of groundbreaking experiment.

Their waitress veers near the table again and John flags her down with some difficulty. "Hey, can I just get a refill whenever you get a chance? Thanks."

To which she sighs dramatically, like a teenager who's just had her curfew reinforced, which may not be far off. "Right, in a minute, yeah? _Bit_ busy here, case you hadn't noticed."

Sherlock gives her a once over, quick back and forth flicker of his eyes. "Your shirt doesn't quite match the uniform of the other waitstaff, so either you don't care enough about this admittedly dead-end job or, wait—ah, I see, wearing it to attract the attention of your manager, over there, much too tight and low-cut to be practical for moving about all day, and between you and me, it would work rather better if you had any figure to speak of. You're trying to butter him up because you need a raise but you're terrible at your job, which is abundantly evident in your attitude without even taking into account the way your other tables are reacting to you or your marked lack of tips. You moved to London for university but have since dropped out, however you've neglected to tell your parents because you're desperate for their approval. Your boyfriend's recently broken up with you because you accused him of cheating when he wasn't—in fact, you were cheating on him but didn't want to be responsible for the break-up, because you clearly don't take responsibility for anything in your life, let alone your customers. You spend more time primping in a mirror than most people, and while your acrylic nails and spray tan are top of the line, you use cheap perfume and dye your hair at home because you imagine this will convince people your hair is naturally that exceptionally revolting shade of . . . well now, what _would_ you call that, chartreuse or something, I suppose. Oh and don't worry about missing your last period, it was merely due to your abundantly apparent anorexia."

"I'm not—"

Sherlock peers closer. "Aha, yes—bulimia then, sorry. Missed the teeth. It's always _something_ . . ."

She blinks at him, dumbstruck, then remembers herself and nearly crashes into another server in her hurry to escape.

"Kids these days," John says, without any real venom since Sherlock had already done all the rather relentlessly sexist belittling and . . . shit, all right, so John lived through Sherlock a bit. So what? "Don't know what makes them so entitled."

"I don’t know _ee_ ther."

"Yeah it's—wait, what?"

"Either."

John eyes him, but then he spots some potential food headed their way and forgets about it.

*

"Sherlock," John states.

"Mm?" Sherlock doesn't lift his head from his microscope, just scoots his chair closer to the kitchen table like John is being extremely inconsiderate by insisting on being hungry.

John points at the bowl on the work-surface " _What's_ this?"

Sherlock glances up. "Tom _ay_ to. A perennial fruit native to South America."

"Right, of—hang on. Repeat that?"

"I said, tomato," Sherlock says, buried in the microscope again.

"No . . . you said tom _ay_ to—"

"And you say tom _ah_ to," Sherlock finishes.

((you say pot _ay_ to and I say pot _ah_ to))

"Ah. Right, I get it. Ha. Because we were fighting? Bit more interactive than the others, this one . . . 'Let's Call The Whole Thing Off', is it?"

((let's call the calling off off))

Sherlock shuffles some slides around, doesn't look up. "More interactive? Well, I suppose you could've done lines of flour, but I would advise against it."

*

It hits John halfway through his morning coffee.

The soundtrack to the world isn't unbearably dismal or utterly absent, today. It's a pleasant upward hum of contentedness. Suddenly it seems to John that everything in the light and air ought to be happy, and as long as he's living, then that's enough. He has enough, in the taste of slightly burnt coffee and the latest silly news in the paper. His clothes and tiny pastimes and what he always ends up making for dinner are enough.

He knows he shouldn't put faith in this feeling—these feelings _never_ lasted, and the disappointment when they inevitably disintegrated was in no way fun. But he can't help just basking in it, at least for awhile.

Sherlock emerges from his bedroom, grabs the cup of coffee John had put out for him without a _Thank you_ or even a _Good morning_ , trudges into the living room.

Sherlock looks absurd. Tragic and dramatic, having draped himself across the sofa like that. He could have been drowning in buckets of roses against an idyllic country backdrop and not looked out of place. He was _so_ pale, and his hair was curly like how everyone seemed to have curly hair in old paintings. It even fell artistically in one eye. Sherlock clearly had the right idea lazing about the flat in thin clingy bedclothes—it was getting warmer with the rising sun. John's hot coffee wasn't helping with the sudden stuffiness of the room.

Sherlock, of course, notices John's staring. " _What_?"

He's so _affronted_. He looks _ridiculous._ John laughs. "Nothing. Good morning."

*

Piccadilly Circus is crowded with boring, colorfully dressed people, many of whom seem rather overeager about the approach of spring—some had forgone coats, while others had boldly donned their summer flip-flops as if in defiance of the reality of the season. John was sure they were all just determined to ignore how relentlessly cold the weather was.

They've somehow got themselves caught in the flow of the crowd, walking at such a slow pace that it occurs to John that they are very often running, or at least dashing from place to place. And Sherlock _always_ was. 

John pulls his jacket tighter around himself, once again glad of the added warmth of his jumper. "So, when's my next clue, then?"

"Haven't even played you a song."

"Well, no . . ." It had been awhile since the last one. "You going to?"

"Perhaps. If I can think of another one that's apropos."

"Oh, I have faith in your ability to think, if nothing else." John feels a bit betrayed, which is irrational, but this had been their stupid little game just between them, and now Sherlock was bored of it, apparently. "What do you mean by apropos?"

Sherlock sighs. "Means appropriate. Relevant. Signifi—."

"Yes, all right, you can shut up—I do know what it means. Apropos of what, is what I'm asking."

"You."

"Okay, but . . . me? What do you mean?"

"I mean exactly what I said." Glances over at him. "You'll figure it out eventually. Maybe." He shoves past a gaggle of sight-seers whose leisurely stroll had been driving John slowly mad, and John grins and follows.

*

John thinks about song lyrics. That is, he Googles them like a normal person and doesn't just summon up data from the depths of his memory like _some_ people. He reads over them and thinks about them, thinks about Sherlock, thinks about music and the violin and the entrancing expressiveness Sherlock has when he plays.

He's not entranced because Sherlock is talented or because John could pretend he was seeing Sherlock's true self when he played, not because of the sweet vibrating tones of the instrument reaching out to touch him, not Sherlock's musicality, his faked emotions . . . It's Sherlock's uncharacteristically relaxed demeanor, his eyes which go softer around the edges. It's an intangible impulse that led to nowhere but sounded _Sherlock, Sherlock_ in John's head.

John walks up to Sherlock where he's holding court stretched out on the sofa in pajamas and bare feet, despite that it's nearly noon. He doesn't look up from his phone until John says, "I have a story for you. I'm going to misquote it, probably."

((once upon a time before I took up smiling))

Sherlock frowns, then looks up. His hair is messier than usual.

John continues: "So, instead of misquoting . . ." Pulls his phone out of his pocket and hits 'send'. _Woosh._

((my life had no mission))

Sherlock continues to stare at John while his own phone chimes, unlocks it without looking and only glances down after John's gestured at him ( _Well, go on_ ). He snorts. "Didn't think you were capable of transmitting actual files via text."

"They didn't teach typing on computer keyboards or mobile phones in the 80s. Doesn't mean I don't know how to send a damn file." In reality, it had taken quite a few test runs and his sister finally texting back _This better be a really important experiment, because you're running up my minutes at this point and I'm starting to think it's some passive aggressive scheme of yours and you won't tell me what I've done, of course, so. Enjoy the two-pager, dammit_.

Sherlock taps his phone and crinkly, staticy piano floods the space between them, disarmingly upbeat before Billie Holiday's distinctive croon follows—stylishly and careless but sharply sad around the edges.

"What's this for?" Sherlock says, watching his phone in case it makes any sudden moves.

"I thought we were playing a game. Sorry, did you want to stop?"

"You just gave me the answer straight away, no clues or mystery, and therefore no _game_ to speak of."

"Yeah. 'Cause I don't want play anymore. Listen, when we first met . . .

((you saw me standing alone, without a dream in my heart))

"You saw . . . not just things about me like Afghanistan or Harry. You could see what I needed just . . . right away, I think . . .

((you knew just what I was there for))

"You don't treat me differently. You don't handle me with care or whatever. But . . . you do, sort of. You do things for me that keep me sane, silly things nobody ever thinks of, that I never thought of—making me laugh or being rude to people because you can tell they've annoyed me, keeping me on my toes all the time and sending me on wild goose chases just to keep me entertained. Dragging me into danger and saying fantastically inappropriate things, and never apologizing for any of it, which _is_ honorable, and true to yourself and admirable, and all those things that people never think of, with you, because people _are_ stupid. I think you do all this for me deliberately. I think you know what I need so I don't go insane."

((now I'm no longer alone))

Sherlock smiles—one of those slowly blooming ones that never quite graduates into a grin. "Is that all?"

John nods, folds his arms. "Think so, yeah."

"Hm." Sherlock turns back to his phone but leaves the music playing.

*

John had all but forgotten their earlier encounter, although the song still bounces around in his head as he scrounges up a halfhearted meal. He hovers over the cooker to stir pasta, nearly knocks a pot of boiling water over when Sherlock's arms slip around him from behind without a word, sudden warm body all up against him while steam assaults his face. Sherlock's warm breath on his neck and his warm elegant hands on John so casually. He says, " 'Blue Moon'."

"Well yeah, I mean we did already listen to . . . it . . . I mean, yeah." John exhales carefully. "Dinner?"

"I'm not hungry." Sherlock's hand snakes around to turn the cooker off, and then there are warm dry lips on the back of John's neck followed by a warm wet tongue tasting in their wake while hands tighten at his hips. John drops the fork he'd held in a death grip as Sherlock's hand meanders up under John's jumper to meet overheated skin—it's not a particularly erogenous zone, but the light stroke of Sherlock's fingernails up John's side is suddenly the sexiest thing ever.

John lets out a shaky breath, closes his eyes and relishes the goosebump-raising thrill that Sherlock's unhurried explorations elicit, the waves of heat coursing through his blood with every sucking kiss to his neck, Sherlock pulling him back and more snugly close to him.

John curses his now excessively cozy jumper, and he must've made a noise or something because then Sherlock's mouth presses against his ear to say, "All right?" resonantly.

And women don't do this. Women don't hold you still and drive you mad with lust with a mere whisper in your ear—well, okay, that came out wrong. John _liked_ women, but there were always expectations and gender roles, there, which he found satisfying to carry out, on some stupid primitive level, but the element of surprise here was far tastier a thing. Uncertainty and a teetering balance of power were more compelling than a checklist of what's done when making love to a woman—for example, phrases like 'making love'. Women were pretty and nice and infinitely appealing, with mysterious bodies and thoughts and desires, but . . . It's just that John doesn't think he's ever properly wanted someone. He's wanted sex, of course. He's wanted relationships, the structure of dating and the challenge to say and do the right things in order to advance. The thrill of the chase, as it were. But whenever he finally _caught_ it—her, that is—he found himself dissatisfied.

That could very easily happen, here. John doesn't want to end up bored with Sherlock. More importantly, he doesn't want Sherlock to end up bored with him.

John waits for a pause in the rhythm of Sherlock's kisses, which have been trailing down the side of his neck so that John can see him in his peripheral vision, waits for a pause to elude Sherlock's grip and spin around and—

Nope, Sherlock just traps him harder against the work-surface, and John's little surge of anger fades into something far more exhilarating. John groans and struggles and loves the strength of Sherlock's hold on him, his determination, loves getting Sherlock to contest with him however possible, really.

John basks in the attention for awhile, tilts his head to give Sherlock better access to the juncture of his neck and shoulder, puts one of his hands over Sherlock's just to feel that this is really him and not some fantastic, Sherlock-scented incubus who's turning John into a puddle of helpless want. 

He bides his time until Sherlock's at an odd angle, arms twisting because he's currently mapping every inch of John's torso from beneath his jumper—then, John knocks him off balance, grins at the disgruntled surprise on Sherlock's face before backing him against the kitchen table.

Sherlock is wearing the typical Sherlock uniform of white shirt, black jacket, and coat left on while indoors. These are important details because very soon John is going to be unable to disassociate them from whatever happens next. He pictures himself at crime scenes remembering the resistance of Sherlock's buttons under his fingers, in a taxi with Sherlock's coat overflowing into his personal space and reminding John of when he seized it and pulled Sherlock flush against him for a proper kiss, which is what was happening right now, actually.

John's mouth had gone dry from panting under Sherlock's ministrations, before, so now he mines Sherlock's mouth for wetness, licks inside and it gets much too sloppy but Sherlock doesn't seem to mind—he lets John's hands encircle his wrists and press them back against the table, press their bodies close , lets John kiss him demandingly. Sherlock's hard, and the unyielding heat of his erection against John's thigh makes John's heart race because now there was real kissing and real arousal and this really wasn't just some lovely fantasy.

John presses his leg between Sherlock's, swallows his surprised moan and is just about to move some of the clutter on the table away because it's occurred to John that if 'having Sherlock over the kitchen table' wasn't on his bucket list, then it really should've been—

Sherlock shoves him back. " _Careful_."

"With what? This is all rubbish, isn't it?" John scans the table for something of importance, suddenly contrite under all that mind-clouding lust.

"It's not _rubbish_. I might _need_ it."

John nods indulgently. "Yes, of course you will. My mistake."

Sherlock sighs. It clearly conveys _tedious, boring, stupid_. "This isn't exactly what I had in mind."

"Oh? Oh. Er." John laughs, starts to panic. "Well, shit."

"No no no, that's not . . . I wanted you like _this_." 

The amount of time it takes Sherlock to steer John to the sofa and throw him down like they're on the cover of a romance novel is not very much at all, and therefore John can't keep up with the swiftness of the progression, can't tell how his jumper had gone missing (gentle jangle of dog tags) or when Sherlock had shrugged out of his coat and jacket before kissing John down into the cushions again. Somewhere along the way John had managed to unbutton the rest of Sherlock's shirt and was now filling his hands with pale, shivery skin.

"So, ah . . . " John tries again: "So. You want to . . . so you _do_ want . . . me? I just mean . . ."

"John," Sherlock says, oozing exasperation. " _Keep up._ "

Sherlock kisses up his neck slowly, almost soulfully and definitely not as though he'd just been chiding him, mouth apparently magnetized to John's skin as it roams over his chin and finally meets his lips for a mind-meltingly measured kiss that John can only categorize as 'sweet'.

John's vest is bunching up from their collective movement, and the bared skin of his chest brushes against Sherlock's and it shouldn't be so shockingly erotic, but because it's Sherlock it just automatically _is_. John gets a hand in Sherlock's hair to keep them kissing, insinuates his other arm between their bodies and the back of the sofa with some difficulty so he can loop it up around Sherlock's waist and pull him closer there too. Sherlock's coat's draped across the back of the sofa and it scratches at John's arm in a way that is marvelously irritating (a sentiment that could be applied to Sherlock himself, really), and between the heat of the flat and the heat of their bodies John is sweating and blushing and gasping for breath between kisses. Sherlock grinds down into him and John mimics it on instinct, groans and says:

"Mm, is that your phone in your pocket or . . . wait, that is your phone."

"You need to shut up." Sherlock's hair is all over the place, tickling John's face and tangling in John's fingers. Sherlock makes so many delicious sounds into the kiss that John's got to push it farther until he can get Sherlock completely out of control and moaning and wanting him. He twists away from Sherlock with some difficulty and escapes the sofa, wrestles out of shoes, trousers, pants, then stills Sherlock with a hand on his chest when he starts to stand up, instead pins Sherlock against the back of the sofa and straddles him, works his fly open and kisses him deeply while stroking his cock.

It isn't long before Sherlock starts to come undone, gasping ever more desperately against John's mouth and bucking up into the sensation. John retreats enough to watch his face, obsessed with the sight. Jerks Sherlock's cock harder and is much too busy taking in Sherlock's expression or the way his head's thrown back to notice Sherlock's hands scaling up John's thighs to his hips and suddenly _shoving_ , which leaves John hovering awkwardly above Sherlock with far too much distance between them.

Sherlock shimmies down John's body, still beneath him and apparently determined to brand a hot trail with his mouth from John's neck and downward, over his twisted up vest, tongue dipping into his navel before Sherlock's sitting on the floor with his head resting on the sofa cushions. He yanks John closer by the hips until he can take his cock into his mouth.

John gasps, rearranges himself to get a better angle and steels himself not to just fuck Sherlock's mouth thoughtlessly because _God_ it feels much, much too good . . .

John grips the back of the sofa desperately, kind of loves the rough dig of the material of Sherlock's coat contrasting with the velvet swirl of his mouth like that. He looks down.

He should _not_ have looked down, because his cock is currently resting on Sherlock's tongue and gliding vaguely around, into his mouth straight on and slick or slipping sideways to slide against the inside of his cheek, or just missing his mouth entirely to paint over his face messily. Sherlock's eyes are closed, which is only practical unless he'd wanted to go cross-eyed, but it still felt like they were closed in rapture, like Sherlock was just too weak with desire to open them, like Sherlock just _wanted_ John's cock in the basest, sluttiest way imaginable.

John stops looking. However, not looking only magnifies the pleasure, because now he's concentrating on that alone, on the wild swipes of tongue under the head of his cock and the unexpectedly hard sucks here and there and fuck, _fuck_ , he just needs to come, because this is too much for any mere mortal to take for long.

Sherlock seems to sense that he's close, finds a steadier rhythm and incorporates his hands, now, gripping the base tightly and fondling John's balls as an afterthought but it's enough, and John comes breathlessly, collapses to the side onto the sofa. As he lies there attempting to catch his breath Sherlock shifts about in the background, cushions sinking under his weight and John jumps when he feels hands on his waist, feels Sherlock's tongue lapping John's cock carefully—wait, had he swallowed or . . . oh, whatever. John can't be bothered to think rationally, just yet.

Unfortunately, Sherlock is not particularly sympathetic to this. He sort of rolls John onto the floor, catches him by the hair and drags him closer.

John fends him off. "Okay okay, _hang on_ , my _God_ . . ." He sits more comfortably on the floor, urges Sherlock's knees apart (his clothes had gone missing during John's post coital haze, apparently). "You don't have to be so damn _pushy_. Just give me a moment, here."

"Oh _really_ , you've already had an orgasm. Your turn is over."

"Suppose I should be grateful I even get a turn, really . . . "

"Stop being impolite."

" _I_ should?"

Sherlock sort of growls, slices his fingers into John's hair again and brings him closer again, and really John should feel flattered to have turned Sherlock on this much. He sighs, which ghosts over Sherlock's cock and elicits a lovely little shiver from him that's all shoulders and flickering eyes, and suddenly John is very keen indeed.

He lets Sherlock's cock bump against his cheek, feels a lovely little surge of arousal at the mere idea of this—deliciously taboo and _new_ , and this was Sherlock who was asking, after all. John liked deferring to Sherlock. It was a kind of intimacy, in its way.

John still hasn't caught his breath, so he keeps releasing Sherlock's cock to gasp for air, which Sherlock seems to actually _like_ so John makes a point of sucking 'til he feels dizzy and following up by panting hotly over slick skin while his hand encircles the shaft and grips harder and goes faster than he's quite able to with his mouth.

John's brain begins waking up, attempting to formulate ingeniously sexy plans of attack but really he just tries not to gag and mostly fails to convince his muscles to start being useful again.

A low, helpless sound from above and John glances up to see Sherlock with his eyes squeezed shut and his mouth wet and parted, working soundlessly and unable to express what he must be feeling other than through further, pleading little moans and yeah, that definitely wakes John right up.

John sucks harder, moves his head up and down at a pace he always wants just before orgasm but can never seem to articulate—lighter pressure but faster paced, and then just harder and harder and harder and John has to pull off Sherlock's cock to use his hands instead, which really is rather better because from here he can see the abandon writ on Sherlock's face and John gets just as breathless as Sherlock is at the thought having caused it.

John should've cleared his throat before saying, "Look at me," because it comes out raw and alien-sounding.

Sherlock's eyes sliver open so instantly (for _him_ , _God_ . . .) that John emits a helpless little noise of his own, says " _Fuck_ ," for good measure and mm's when Sherlock gets a tight grip on John's just long enough hair to urge him back down.

But John can't keep up the pace without his hands, so he just laves his tongue around the tip vaguely while continuing to pump him, can't look away from Sherlock's unflinching eyes and there's a part where they moan at the same time before Sherlock stops breathing altogether, tenses while John encourages, "Oh _fuck_ come on, come for me . . ." Covers Sherlock's cock with his mouth again and sucks him for those last charged moments before he comes, doesn't have time to think about swallowing and just does it anyway, which is somehow easier and less of a big deal than he'd thought it would be. 

When John sits up Sherlock is watching him, which wouldn't be notable except that his gaze is badly focused and his face is ludicrously flushed. His eyes are in fact the bluest they've ever been. John can't help but kiss him, and it starts slow and uncoordinated but drags on for absolute ages, until they're leaning against each other at awkward angles and breathing together in the silence. Every heavy heartbeat's like an echo of orgasm. John thinks he likes this better than the actual orgasm, especially because Sherlock is pressed up against his side and breathing hard and feeling the same thing.

After some time, Sherlock speaks, and it's in such a close, mumbly little voice that it takes John a great deal of effort to pay proper attention. "Feel better?"

John yawns. "Better'n' what?"

"Than how you would've felt had I told you."

"Told me?" John's too knackered to do much more than repeat him. 

"That I wanted you. Studies have found that explaining 'good events' robs them of their positive effect, psychologically."

John laughs. "You're trying to make me happy, is that what you're saying?"

Sherlock shrugs, which is too close and sticky with sweat and wonderful. "You _are_ depressed."

Maybe. " _You're_ pretty insufferably arrogant to assume that having sex with you would cure that and make me happy."

"It did, though. It's sex. You like sex—I've researched this. Have you _seen_ your computer hard drive?"

But it's not just that. It's the songs whenever John is moping, and the being terrible to people who probably deserve it for him because John can't, the providing John with tasks and projects and elaborate games and always keeping him guessing because Sherlock knows John needs structure or fun or life or whatever it was. 

John sighs. "This isn't healthy, you know."

"Of course not." Sherlock's tone heavily implies _Who wants to be healthy? How boring._ "You reacted to me differently from the beginning. Sure, you paused to look affronted by my manner, but you just as quickly accepted it and moved on. You thought I was brilliant without being simply too dim to understand and without meaning it contemptuously. You followed me without question or very much protest, like you'd been stuck waiting for anything to happen in your life. You jumped at the chance of being a sidekick to _my_ life without thinking it through and you've not looked back. No, it's definitely not _healthy_."

Well, no, it's really not. It feels better than a proper life, though—proper jobs and proper behavior. Proper relationships. John's always been sure that doing things properly was how people were able to feel like themselves. "I'm sick of healthy, actually," he says.

"Oh?" Sherlock's trying not to smile. "Good."

*


End file.
